


The Midnight Reign

by spiderlily



Series: Afterlight [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderlily/pseuds/spiderlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every now and again Thranduil would emerge from his rooms and be in the mood for a party. </p><p>Wine and feast day brings with it revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Midnight Reign

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I know Legolas couldn't get drunk in LOTR but maybe it just wasn't the right stuff ;) And he certainly seemed to know what drinking games was so there you go.
> 
> Some liberties taken with the Elven languages.
> 
> The song in the story is actually a poem Narqelion - "Autumn" - written of course by Tolkien.
> 
> Will make more sense if you've read the first 2 parts of the series.

Over the years it was not as if they had never spoke.

They spoke regularly in fact. Etiquette decreed that each time he would return to Mirkwood after some time away, he should go first to pay his respects to his father, lest it be said that the Prince snuck in and out of the Kingdom like some common thief.

They had so few visitors in these decades that the Throne hall usually lay empty. Thranduil would found in his room most of the time, reading. Or in the hall beside it, practicing his sword work with Galion labouring strenuously to keep up. One fateful day Legolas had even come upon him reclining in his branch-wrought chair in his open porch, arrayed by the patchwork of sunlight glinting in through the tall, ancient trees.

“So you are back.” Thranduil would say, sometimes without even bothering to look at him and sometimes staring at him so intently he would have to fight the urge to look away.

“Yes _ada_.”

“What evil have you slain this time? Are we all now made safe thanks to your valiant efforts?”

The cool, mocking tone seemed to Legolas as much part of the King as his long, fair hair. Never had he spoken to Legolas any differently; looked upon him as though he thought of him worthy of genuine regard.

Still it was not in Legolas’ nature to despair. He was young yet. Perhaps when he was older, stronger, wiser- maybe then his father would one day smile upon him with approval. Perhaps also on that day his heart would stop trying to leap out through his throat. He told himself this and, before that fateful day, even believed it.

“You always seem more upset after leaving the King’s chambers than you do going in.” His friend Teodor could usually be found waiting for him in his room after one of these visits. Legolas sometimes wondered why Teodor didn’t need to go to his own family after so long away but seemed to always have an abundance of time to just hang about. “I know why. All fathers are like that.” He waved his hands around. “ _Teodor I have heard that you came across a company of great spiders last time you were away. I do wonder if that Captain of yours knows what she’s doing, leading a bunch of children into battle with a spider! Surely there are more capable elves for the job._ Fathers! They say mothers are bad, but at least they do not attack your honor with so little regard.”

Legolas who would have given his right eye to hear his father say something like this to him, could only laugh politely. He could share nearly everything with his dear friend but this secret was different. The memory of that day was like setting fire to his veins. Common sense told him such a feeling was painful - fatal even - and should be avoided at all costs. And if that were true why did his heart quicken every time he approached the great doors of the King’s Hall? Why then did his eyes search for his father’s form if even he was remotely near?

He was thinking of this when Helneth came upon him one evening, on a feast day. Every now and again Thranduil would emerge from his rooms and be in the mood for a party. He would order it and send all the court into a flurry of excited activity.

“What is the meaning of this? You should be ready by now. Do you not want to attend?”

Legolas had been sitting in his room staring rather blankly at the clothes which Helneth’s maids had laid out for him. He’d been thinking so long that the late afternoon had wiled into evening and there was a sweet smell in the air from the flowering trees. Helneth lit the lights in the room and turned towards him.

“It’s not that I don’t want to go.” Legolas said slowly. It was quite the opposite. His heart yearned for it, even now it was thundering as though with the hooves of a hundred horses.

“You needn’t hide it from me,” Helneth said. “I know why you stay away from home so often. I understand. You long for the simplicity of the wilds and detest the artifice of the court. There is no shame in it. My sister was the same way.”

 _Hypocrite,_ the voice in Legolas’ heart whispered. _That’s not it, is it? That’s what you want them to think, but that’s not it at all. You are false and untrue, a traitor to your mother’s memory._

Legolas put on the clothes and went to the party. To ignore an invitation from the King was the highest form of disrespect, even if the invitation was issued as a formality only. It wasn’t as though he had any choice in matter really.

_Hypocrite._

He was late and so when he slipped in, the celebrations were already underway.

As usual his eyes sought out his father sitting at the High Table. Thranduil appeared to be in good spirits, he was laughing in amusement as those in his company regaled the table with what appeared to be wild tales. Even if he had not been King and had not worn a crown upon his head, Thranduil would have stood out. His beauty aside, he stood at least half a head taller than those in his company. His father was dressed as he usually was, in Kingly garb, but his build, his manner, all of that spoke of strength and a warrior’s grace. Those around him, seizing upon this rare mood of indulgence, pressed in close to him.

There was an ugly feeling coiling in Legolas chest. He turned his eyes elsewhere.

“My Lord!”

It was Galion whom he had walked by barely noticing. He checked himself and came back. His father’s steward smiled to see him. He was carrying an enormous jug of wine. “My Lord Legolas!” He repeated. “Welcome!”

Legolas liked Galion very much. The handsome, auburn haired elf had been kind to him ever since he was a boy. “Greetings Galion.”

The King’s steward was now looking at him with some amazement. “It has been some time since we last met, no? Such a young elfling you once were and now you appear almost grown!”

“I am grown.” Legolas said, amused. He allowed Galion to give him a goblet and then fill it up almost to the brimful. “I came of age many decades hence.”

Galion was smiling fondly at him. “Yes I can see that. And you look very well- it is almost disconcerting to see how well. Time has been kind to you.”

Legolas laughed. “You look fine too this evening, Galion. Health and joy to you.” Was Galion drunk already? There was a rumor that Galion was very fond of wine and knew where to procure all the best vintages. The rumor also said that it was for this very reason that the King had employed him as steward since he never appeared very adept at his job. Thranduil was never one to suffer incompetence and so, people surmised, he must have been competent at _something._

He left Galion and went to join his friends. He had friends at Court of course, young elves from noble lineages, his father’s vassals and the like. He liked them well enough. Still they were not like Teodor and his friends among the guards. 

They welcomed him enthusiastically and made room for him at their table. “Legolas it’s been too long! Tell us about your adventures!”

They were all wonderfully drunk already. As he took his seat, out of the corner of his eyes he could see his father laugh, throwing back his head. Lady Yelatha who sat beside him placed a hand coquettishly on his sleeve. Legolas drank deeply from his goblet. Yes why should he not get drunk as his friends were?

“Yes do tell Legolas. You always have the best stories.”

“Perhaps I should join the Guards too.”

“You always say that but then you never do. You are too much of a coward!”

They were laughing merrily . Legolas drank again and again. Yes time to make merry and be false. This was Court after all.

***

Some time later he was feeling wonderfully relaxed. Whatever this vintage was that Galion had procured it was really very good. When Elves became drunk they did not become loud or raucous as men did, but became languid and indolent. The harpist was playing a beautiful song. Legolas lay back among the cushions and there was someone stroking his hair.

“Legolas,” It was one of his friends. “Why don’t you sing? I have heard they say when you are bedding down in the forest, that you will sing to your friends among the guards. We’ve never even heard to you sing! Do you like them more than you like us?”

 _Yes,_ he thought. But he bites the words. Well he is in an agreeable mood. “What would you like me to sing?”

“Anything you like! The musicians will follow, won’t they?”

Legolas sat up slowly. The lead harpist fell silent.

 _“N·alalmino lalantila, Ne·súme lasser pínea..._ ” _(From the elm-tree falling one by one, small leaves were in the wind...)_ He began.

Recognizing the song the harpist immediately took up the tune, along with the rest of the minstrels. Legolas sung in the Sindarian tongue as his mother and then Helneth had taught him. As Legolas sang the Hall became quiet. Some of the older Elves, who had come to Mirkwood after the fall of Doriath, felt their eyes become wet. Even those who did not understand the words felt the beauty of the song in their hearts, visions came to them of the orange and red leaves falling from the trees in autumn and the sound of music through the trees of a long-vanished Elven-home. This vision was commingled with the beauty of the Prince and his strong, pure voice effortlessly moving over the foreign words.

_“Ai lindórea Lasselanta, Nierme mintya náre qanta.” (Oh! with singing at dawn Fall, reminds me that it is filled with grief.)_

When Legolas finished is song there was a silence. Then scattered clapping- then louder. People were holding him about shoulders, clasping his hands. Legolas too realized his eyes were wet. His mother had sung this song to him often. Since she had gone he had not heard it for a long time.

_His mother..._

Dismayed he looked up at the High Table. He saw Thranduil sitting there, looking upon him. The King’s eyes were wide, his body tense. His nostrils were flared. His fingers were white around the goblet he was holding.

Then he was gone, standing up and walking away so quickly his inebriated courtiers looked around, befuddled and confused.

Legolas excused himself quickly and followed him.

***

The King was standing in the wide balcony, staring up at the moon. Before him there spread the expanse of the forest and in the distance a lonely mountain peak. His long black robe trailed behind him and disappeared into the night.

_“Ada?”_

Thranduil’s shoulder moved slightly. For a moment Legolas thought his father was going to ignore him but then Thranduil turned.

One cannot get sick of beauty but it can grow tiresome contemplating it all the time.

“I’m sorry did I upset you?”

Thranduil breathed in deeply. His black eyelashes - his eyebrows and eyelashes were a completely different shade to his hair, it was details like this that Legolas noticed and then pretended he didn’t - shook. “I did not know you knew that song.”

“My mother used to sing it to me when I was a child. She said it reminded her of-”

“Do not,” Thranduil said roughly. “Do not speak to me of her.”

His head fell back, the moon shone on his bare neck. Legolas stared at the strong column of it and felt himself tremble. “Why?” He asked bluntly. All the languor had left his limbs. He felt seized with adrenaline. He crossed the distance between them. “Why do you never speak of her? Why do you never speak of me? I am your son, but why does it seem I matter less to you then a servant in your company, an annoyance that must be tolerated simply because it shares your flesh and flood? Why is it you have you never looked upon me once with love? Tell me father, don’t you know how much it _aches_?”

He was holding Thranduil’s wrist. He had never been so bold in his life. His father, tall and majestic in the moonlight, looked down at his wrist caught in Legolas’ grip and then flexed his long fingers. He moved his arm - Legolas could do nothing to stop it but he didn’t let go - and touched Legolas’ face coldly. His fingers ran down Legolas’ cheek and his jaw. The pressure of his fingertips against his nose and lips. Legolas closed his eyes. This was agony. This was joy.

“My son,” Thranduil said. His voice was as hard as ancient stone. “I cannot give you what you want.”

***

“What good is outward beauty when the heart is withered and dead?”

He hadn’t understood Helneth then.

***

Tauriel frozen by the door, staring at him, her eyes filled with shock and pity.

She was such a bright and uncomplicated thing. He was younger than her but at that moment he felt protective towards her. He hoped she would never hide sunless things inside her heart as he did.

Of course he'd known for a while by then.

***

On that fateful day when Legolas had come to pay his respects to his father, he had taken a shortcut through the royal gardens. It was through a back path that Mithel had had made for her so she could wander the forest when she wanted. Since her death it had long lain disused and forgotten, except of course by the child whom she had sometimes brought with her.

Legolas came quietly through the overgrown path which twisted and turned and in time brought him to the inner garden and from there to the porch leading into the King’s chambers. There he stopped.

His father was lying upon the bough-chair in a languid pose. His arm was thrown up over his head, his head was bare. Beside him on the table was a silver tray, its sides wrought with the image of Tauron, the Lord of the Forests. In it was a bright, red leaf; some crushed and powdered. The sickly sweet, overripe scent of it carried all the way to Legolas standing fixated beside the tree.

Thranduil’s robe was parted, he wore nothing beneath it. The sunlight kissed the defined contours of his body; the long, glorious length of him. And kneeling between his long, strong thighs was a face he knew but whose name in that moment was lost to him.

Thranduil’s arm moved. He clutched the hair of the other elf and arched his body. His eyes closed and a cry escaped from his red, red lips.

Legolas kept his eyes wide open.

***

Elves do not forget and so Legolas lay wide awake beside Teodor in the darkness of the forest, as the memory of sunlight on bare flesh and that cry echoed through his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Teodor asked, coming awake. “You can’t sleep?”

“I think I’m sick.” Legolas confessed.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Elves don’t get sick.” Teodor laughs.

***

“I cannot give you what you want." The words burn like a Morgul-knife.

Combined with the effect of the wine Legolas feels dizzy, bewildered. The blood rushes around his head so loud that even the sounds of the wind on the high balcony is drowned out.

Legolas reaches out with his other hand and touches his father’s neck. There is a pulse there, leaping suddenly. He puts his thumb in the notch between his father’s collarbones. It feels strong and solid, like the rest of him.

"Do you even know me?" Legolas murmured. "Do you even know what I want?"

Thranduil reacts but it's the wrong reaction, he thinks Legolas is about to strike him. He catches Legolas other hand in an iron grip but it doesn't matter because Legolas leans in, reaches up and crushes their lips together. His father goes still with shock. His lips are coldly sweet.

“This.” Legolas says recklessly. “You can give me just this.”

***

Elves do not age and most grow wiser and more beautiful with time. Hence there are, of course, rules about this kind of thing between first relatives.

 _Vára._ The word is from Quenya. It meant Unclean.


End file.
